


Funny and Frightening Ficlets

by Ahaviel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Fluff, Humor, Israel, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, canon-verse, עברית | Hebrew
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 23:09:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9464636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahaviel/pseuds/Ahaviel
Summary: Bits and pieces of Supernatural (usually canon-compliant, but no guarantees) just for fun. Some from prompts, some from dreams, some from the dangerous place that is my imagination. Updated as the mood strikes me.





	1. The Hot Tub

“I gotta stop; my eyes are glazing over.” Sam closed the lid on his laptop and pushed it toward the center of the motel’s small table.

“Gettin’ old, huh Sammy?” Dean said as he sat on the end of one of the beds, not taking his eyes off a _Dr. Sexy M.D._ marathon on the antiquated TV. He’d seen this episode about two dozen times, but damn, those cowboy boots never got old.

“Yeah, you’re one to talk, Mr. I’m-pushing-forty.” Sam stood and stretched, raising his arms high above his head, fingers nearly touching the ceiling. “I’m gonna go check out the outdoor hot tub. We’ve never stayed anywhere with a hot tub before. You should come.”

“Nah, I’m fine. You’re probably going to catch something in the water. Don’t come crying to me if you get flesh-eating bacteria.”

“Dean. Get real. This isn’t one of our usual dumps. I smelled the chlorine when we checked in.”

“And we’re in Phoenix. In July,” Dean pointed out. “You should be looking for a cold tub, not a hot tub.”

“I promise you, Dean, if you spend fifteen minutes in the hot tub, the air will feel fantastic when you get out.”

“When you’re covered in ganked monster blood and guts, a friggin’ hose-down feels fantastic too.”

Sam shrugged and dug around in his duffel, coming up with a pair of black gym shorts. “You know who hangs out in hot tubs?” he asked, turning back to Dean.

“Crazy people who aren’t hot enough?” Dean ventured, reclining back onto his elbows.

“Hot girls, Dean. Hot girls in bikinis.”

Dean glanced at his brother. Glistening bikini-clad women or Dr. Sexy? Could be nice either way.

“Hot guys in Speedos?” Sam suggested, looking at the TV.

“Don’t even start with me.”

“Come on, Dean. You’ve seen that episode at least twice before.”

Dean snorted. If Sam only knew. No, better that he didn’t know. “You’re gonna whine and bitch at me all night if I don’t go, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Sam said. “Yes I am. You’ll thank me for it later.”

“Right,” Dean grumbled, getting to his feet and punching off the TV. “I’m gonna thank you for some brain-eating amoeba.”

The air outside was like a blast furnace and the light pavement around the pool area burned the bottoms of Dean’s feet as he followed his brother toward the hot tub. Sure enough, a few crazy people were boiling themselves alive, laughing and chatting with each other.

Sam stepped down into the water, sighing audibly, and Dean was about to follow when a burst of air pressure pushed him back. He blinked a few times as Castiel materialized uncomfortably close in front of him, especially given the notable lack of clothing Dean was now acutely aware of.

“Dean, you cannot!” Castiel said without his usual greeting, his hands held up in front of him to bar Dean’s way.

“What the hell, Cas? What do you think you’re doing?”

“Protecting you, Dean. You, yourself, said not even a week ago that you did not want to engage in watersports.”

 

* * *


	2. Aim and Shoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: No dialog except, "Do it. It's what we've both been waiting for, isn't it? So go on, pull the trigger."

Castiel held the Glock 17 firmly in his hand, the weapon heavy now that the clip was full. It didn’t have the balance of his blade, nor the lightness that allowed him to move in fluid motions. It was cold. Impersonal.

Killing in hand-to-hand combat meant that everything you did was with intention and finely-honed skill. You had to be certain of your motives, certain of your ability, certain that there was no other way to achieve the goal. There was no room for doubt.

But a gun… He could control the gun but not the bullet. Once it left the muzzle, there were variables he could neither predict nor affect. Not anymore. Not without his grace. Not since he’d been reduced to this.

The gun was nothing but doubt. An all-too-human twitch of his index finger, a badly-aimed shot, someone moving into his sights before he could abort the trigger pull—any of it could mean a loss of life that he never intended. And there had been so much loss already, some intended, some not. Some intended at the time but so deeply regretted later.

And that was it, wasn’t it? With his blade, he was still in control, the weapon an extension of himself. But with the gun, he was one step removed. Aim, pull, and hope for the best. No guarantees, no certainty. It was imprecise and human and he hated it.

His hand trembled as he looked at Dean, at the determined look on Dean’s face, and he brought his left hand up to curl around his right, stilling the tremors. He’d been fighting Dean for weeks now about this, convinced there was some other way, and this morning he’d finally admitted defeat. He was going to have to aim well and shoot.

At least it would be over quickly.

Dean nodded silently, his eyes never leaving Castiel’s.

Hyper-aware of where his index finger was, lying flat alongside the barrel, Castiel adjusted his grip and took a shaky breath, then closed his eyes, wishing he were anywhere else.

“Do it,” Dean urged in a soft voice. “It’s what we’ve both been waiting for, isn’t it?”

Castiel opened his eyes, taking in Dean’s solid encouragement, and nodded.

“So go on.” Dean’s voice was just above a whisper. “Pull the trigger.”

Castiel aimed, took in a long breath and let it out slowly, feeling his heartbeat, and at the end of the exhale, he fired.

The bullet ripped through its target, dead on, precisely where Dean told him to shoot. For good measure, Castiel pulled the trigger two more times, then set the weapon down, his hands shaking again in a post-adrenaline rush as Dean removed his protective ear muffs and retrieved the paper target from the end of the shooting range.

 

* * *

 


	3. Ice Kafé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _From a prompt by[Lotrspnfangirl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lotrspnfangirl) \-- "Drabble me!!! 100-500 words with the prompt: Iced coffee and flip flops."_
> 
>  
> 
> _Two weeks ago, I returned from Israel, where my favorite new drink is אייס קפה -- ice kafé. And after this prompt, a very tan, Hebrew-speaking, Israeli Cas wouldn't leave me alone._

“Uh, one iced coffee?” Dean said when he reached the front of the line. Why he had agreed to a temporary assignment in Tel Aviv when he didn’t know the language, the customs, or how to get anywhere beyond the coffee shop next door to his building was beyond him.

“ _Ais kafé. Ayzeh midah?_ ” the barista asked in a gravelly voice, one tanned hand poised to write down Dean’s order.

“I don’t… No Hebrew. Do you speak English?” Dean had become used to asking this in the few days he’d been in the country.

“Yes.” The barista looked up from his order pad, eyes bluer than the Mediterranean gazing out from a tanned face with dark, messy hair. “What size _ais kafé_?”

Dean tried to swallow around the sudden dryness in his throat. “Large.” What was it with all the Israeli men? Was it their army service? The women were attractive, sure, no more or less than American women. But the _men_ …

“ _Gadol. Zeh tov._ You like _ais kafé_?”

Dean grinned as he wondered if the temperature had gone up another ten degrees. “It’s awesome.”

“It is. You visiting? Tourist?”

Something about the way the barista looked at him— _through_ him—made Dean want to tell the rest of the customers the café was closed, just so he could be alone with the guy. “Uh, no. Just relocated here.”

“And your name?” the barista asked.

“Dean.” He opened his wallet, still trying to understand the monetary system here. The paper money was easy, but why’d they make the biggest coins the smallest denomination? And what was anyone supposed to do with a half-shekel anyway?

“Dean.” The barista laughed, a deep chuckle. “In Hebrew, _din_ means judgement. Are you a judge, Dean?”

“No,” Dean said with a shrug. “I’m a cop. Police. On loan to Interpol.”

“Ah. Why you are not in Jerusalem? No Interpol in Tel Aviv.”

“Uh…” Dean was getting nervous as the line behind him grew. “I don’t wanna take up more time. Just the coffee is fine.”

“Oh them?” the barista said, nodding at the line. He turned abruptly to the kitchen area and yelled, “ _Gavriel! Bo ta’azor la’anashim ha’eleh!_ ” With a smirk, he filled a cup from what looked like an Icee machine, removed his apron revealing an AC/DC t-shirt, and moved around the counter. “One _ais kafé_ for you, Dean.”

Dean took the coffee with his free hand. “I still need to pay you.”

“No. It’s… what you say? On the house.”

“Um… Thanks. But don’t you have to…work? Or whatever?”

“Gavriel will work. I take break. If you like, we walk to the beach? It’s not far.”

It was then that Dean realized the barista was wearing shorts and flip-flops, looking entirely unprofessional, even for a barista. “You won’t get fired?”

The barista rolled his eyes and pulled Dean out the front door of the coffee shop, then pointed at the sign, which read קסטיאל.

“Yeah. No Hebrew.”

“ _Kastiel_. I’m Castiel. I own it.”

 


End file.
